


Why did you kiss me?

by Trillsabells



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trillsabells/pseuds/Trillsabells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While saying goodbye at the airport Sherlock kisses John. When he comes back John has questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why did you kiss me?

“Are we going to talk about this?” he asked.

He expected ‘Talk about what?’. He expected ‘Why would we need to talk about it?’. He expected to have to point out that kissing your straight, married, best friend and ex-flatmate was not in the slightest bit okay. Especially not when you then immediately get on a plane bound for Eastern Europe for a mission that would last at least six months and possibly might never see each other again. And it was definitely not okay to get on that plane when said straight, married, best friend and ex-flatmate was shouting your name, demanding you come back and explain why you kissed him. Especially when the aforementioned straight, married, best friend and ex-flatmate was having to be held back by security and his own wife to stop him from climbing the damn plane, even as it started to take off, to try to get you back.

There was not the slightest bit about that that was okay. But Sherlock Holmes was his own universe and the rules there didn’t always match up with the rules everyone else obeyed in the real world. So he was not surprised that Sherlock would be so confused by the possibility that such an event might merit the slightest comment and that some explanation as to why they needed to talk about this could be required.

The simple reply of “No,” therefore threw him.

“What?”

Sherlock didn’t elaborate, just continued to examine the individual frames of Moriarty’s ‘Miss Me’ message displayed on the computer screens in front of him.

“Sherlock, seriously, what do you mean no?”

“No, we’re not going to talk about this.”

Sherlock didn’t even glance in his direction.

“Do you even know what I’m going on about?”

“I assume you’re referring to me kissing you.”

The tone was bored, as if they were talking about tea or the bills, and he was half an inch from jumping to his feet and shoving Sherlock off his damned swivel chair and demanding that this be taken seriously. But then he noticed Sherlock had stopped moving.

Sherlock had been slowly making his way along the line of screens, examining each frame in turn, occasionally darting back to look at a previous one. Even when he had been giving one frame a particular amount of attention his feet had been tapping, gently pushing the chair from side to side on the marble floor as if ready to dash away at the slightest provocation. Now Sherlock’s feet were still and although his eyes were still moving over the screens he only seemed to be looking between the two directly in front of him as if avoiding turning his head.

So he did have Sherlock’s attention. Something about the mad, insane kiss was important but he didn’t want to talk about it

“Why don’t you want to talk about it?”

“Because what would be the point?”

Gone was the bored tone and even Sherlock seemed to realise he had given himself away. Sherlock sighed and turned fully around on his swivel chair to look at him properly for the first time since he had got back off that plane and swept off, surrounded by security officers, to investigate Moriarty’s message.

“You’re married,” Sherlock said as if he was revealing startling new information only he could deduce rather than stating the obvious, “with a child on the way.” Sherlock gave him the ‘we both know what’s going on’ look. 

He had always hated that look but never quite as much as he did at this moment.

“So?”

“So,” said Sherlock, “what is the point of having a discussion when the decision has already been made?”

Sherlock spun back around on his chair, conversation done with.

Like hell.

He jumped off his stool – unobtrusively placed in the corner of the small viewing room so he could watch Sherlock work and be available for any ‘reflecting’ that needed doing – and spun Sherlock’s chair back around to face him, placing one foot on the base and a hand on each arm rest so Sherlock couldn’t turn back until he was damn well finished having this discussion.

“What,” he said, “the hell are you talking about? What decision?”

“Mary,” Sherlock said.

“What does Mary have to do with you kissing me?”

Sherlock screwed up his face as if disgusted by the thought. “Nothing.”

“Oh for god’s sake. Sherlock, please, just tell me. Why did you kiss me?”

Sherlock hesitated. He didn’t not reply, he didn’t take a moment to deduce the best put down to use, he didn’t pause for emphasis or to give time for the answer to sink in by itself. He hesitated, his gaze dropping momentarily and his mouth opening a fraction then tightening as if clamping down on an instinctive response.

“When I said six months,” Sherlock said finally, meeting his gaze again, “That wasn’t an estimated mission timeframe. That was an estimated life expectancy.”

This time the pause was clearly deliberate and apparently tailor-made to let that statement fully sink in. Life expectancy. Sherlock had gotten on that plane expecting to die. Mycroft had sent him away, knowing he would never return. If it hadn’t been for Moriarty reappearing that might really have been the last time he ever saw Sherlock.

He stumbled backwards, feeling as though someone had punched him in the chest.

He never thought he would feel grateful for Jim Moriarty.

“I kissed you because I didn’t want to die without doing it. Because I knew that no matter what torture the last six months of my life brought it would be a hundred times worse if I didn’t when I could. And because I swore to myself on that rooftop of Barts that I was not going to die without kissing you first.”

He tried to reach surreptitiously for his stool, needing to hold on to something to ground him. What was Sherlock telling him? Was… was Sherlock in love with him?

“Obviously I didn’t know I was going to be coming back, otherwise I would have avoided this.”

What the hell was he supposed to say to that? What the hell was he supposed to do with this information?

“But… I’m not gay.”

Oh yes, well done, Watson, that’s the perfect thing to say right now.

Sherlock clearly felt the same way, throwing up his hands and huffing in obvious frustration.

“Trust me, John, no one is more aware of that than I am.”

“But,” he tried again, desperate to find some kind of bedrock under the choppy sea of this conversation. “What do we,” he waved the hand that wasn’t going white where he was clinging to the seat between him and Sherlock, “do about this?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock, leaning forward. “You’re married. You love her. Even if she is a gun touting psychopath.”

Pot calling the kettle black there.

Oh god, was this the only sort of person he attracted? Did he put out signals or something?

Sherlock sighed and shrugged.

“I told you there was no point in having this discussion. The decision has already been made.”

The decision. Mary. He had chosen Mary over Sherlock.

As Sherlock shook his head and went back to the screens, back to darting between them looking for clues, John found himself clutching at his own shirt, feeling as though something inside him was bubbling up and ripping through his insides, shredding them as it went.

He had chosen Mary over Sherlock.

Over Sherlock.

Sherlock had practically planned his wedding, encouraged him to forgive Mary even after she had shot Sherlock, had sat there and let him rant about his murdering ex-hitman wife and mother of his child, when he was in love with him.

Sherlock was in love with him.

And he had chosen Mary.

How could he begrudge Sherlock one last kiss after that?

God, he had nearly lost Sherlock forever. Again.

God, now he was _glad_ Sherlock had kissed him if that was the case.

This was insane.

He loved Mary. Despite everything, despite the lies and the history and everything she had done to hide from him, he loved her. They were having a baby together.

But Sherlock.

He sat down heavily on the stool and stared across at the impossible man being impossibly clever in front of him to save the country that had sent him away to die.

The man who loved him.

The man he loved.

As he watched Sherlock go through each and every frame he wondered what it would be like if Sherlock kissed him again.


End file.
